By | 1 February 2014

When she took the bandage off her mouth
she found her lips in the mirror
dead as doorknobs, needing to be turned
but opening the locomotive of her throat

only sent certain crackerjacks out.
The truth when it spilled was white
like the ejaculate he had given her
as a present when she turned kind of four.

This was not the gift she had asked for.
So all the banshees that stuck
in her teeth like chicken, and all the lines
she crossed her arms with like noughts,

were so many touch and go bouts
of circumstantial evidence; or, straws
the drowning girl grasps for in the Pacific
when, having risen for the lucky third

time, she can no longer mime her furore
so breaks the silence like a biscuit in two.
And this new silence sounds abrupt
and is a siren call made only for you.

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